


The Unexpected Winter

by Thormolecules



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Jaime Lannister, BAMF Jon Snow, BAMF Robb Stark, Different Allies, Dorne, Exile, F/M, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Bastard, Magic, Non-Canon Relationship, Period-Typical Sexism, R Plus L Equals J, Religious Conflict, The Great Bastards, Wargs, northern independence, only POV characters tagged
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 12:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25849822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thormolecules/pseuds/Thormolecules
Summary: Contrary to the Maesters' expectations of a Long Summer, a fierce winter ravages Westeros from 290 to 295 AC. Some players in the great game are aware, but the greatest loser of them all is Lord Petyr Baelish and his plans for the Iron Throne.Jon Snow and Robb Stark are two brothers by choice who face the winter and use it for their dreams of Northern Independence. Confronted with both sides of his heritage, Jon Snow must decide what kind of bastard he will be: another Brynden Rivers or another Daemon Blackfyre?Jaime Lannister can only warily watch as his sister turns from his other half into a zealot. As King Landing and its politics shift, what will the Lannister knight do? Will he be another Smiling Knight, or another Arthur Dayne?Daenerys Targaryen must claw her way towards self-reliance and find the true meaning of the phrase "a dragon is not a slave". Will her advisors ever allow the scared girl to find her destiny?Dorne has to decide what is more important: vengeance or progress. When confronted with a boy that might be the son of beloved Elia, how will their priorities change?The Long Night and the winter with it is coming, but the Long Summer must first bloom with fire and blood.
Relationships: Aegon VI Targaryen/Daenerys Targaryen, Alys Karstark/Robb Stark, Arianne Martell & Doran Martell, Brynden "Bloodraven" Rivers & Jon Snow, Daenerys Targaryen & Petyr Baelish, Jaime Lannister & Tyrion Lannister, Jon Snow & Ned Stark, Jon Snow & Robb Stark, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Margaery Tyrell, Melisandre of Asshai & Cersei Lannister, Oberyn Martell & Jon Snow, Robb Stark & Wyman Manderly
Comments: 47
Kudos: 93





	1. The Three-Eyed Crow

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, thank you for taking the time to read! I had this idea after reading about GRRM's plans for a five-year gap in his story. Rather than incorporate it into the timeline in the midst of canon, I thought it would be interesting to explore it happening before canon begins. The only logical way I could delay canon would be through the addition of a winter that lasts five years. This butterfly will eventually flap its wings and change a great deal of things in canon. 
> 
> Petyr Baelish is the biggest casualty of the winter. I think he only got away with his financial manipulation because he served during the longest summer in Westeros' history. I expect that the Crown's coffers (should) get filled during the summer, and run dry in the winters. The result is that the War of the Five Kings does not happen the way it does in canon. I truly think that Petyr was the one to put it in Jon Arryn and Stannis' head that Robert was being cuckolded. There will be great changes overall, and any authorial choice are my own obviously. 
> 
> Melisandre and Bloodraven will both know of this winter. They will both attempt to manipulate the timeline because of this foreknowledge. Note that I am using show canon as a primary source of these visions, since it is complete, for the visions of the future. However, this is a book-based fic. 
> 
> One key choice is that Jon Snow is in fact a bastard and not named Aegon. I don't particularly like the hidden prince trope, nor do I believe that Rhaegar could simply annul his marriage via a High Septon and park Lyanna in Dorne with no repercussions either during or after the war. I'd like to think they married under the old gods, to assuage Lyanna's honor, but that would not be a valid marriage in the South, and the North will have its own problems with accepting Jon as a Targaryen heir.
> 
> Rhaegar's Visenya would have been legitimized after the war by King Rhaegar had he lived, and Lyanna would be free to make her choices in life afterwards. They had a pleasant, transactional relationship where Rhaegar gets his third head and Lyanna gets freedom from her betrothal and society's expectations of a woman. I think that fits both of their personalities better than 'true love' and makes it much less bleak than a rape and abduction.

**285**

_A wolf with pristine white fur and unnatural, unopened green wings stops its run at the great Wall before whimpering in a puddle of blood and fire._

_A black dragon flies across the sea and lands among stone dragons._

_A younger three-eyed crow is not a crow at all. It is a raven. It lies in wait, feasting on the eyes and death of stags, wolves, lions and dragons alike while forging a crown of misery._

_There is no flaming sword. There is no sacrifice. The half-ling wolf is untempered, unready to be the God's weapon. Still unready to fly much further than the treeline. There are only spirals, unending and eternal._

_The raven sees all and knows all-but does not see its purpose ordained by the True Gods._

_A headless wolf meets the Great Enemy and instead becomes the God it bows to._

_The half-ling wolf surrounds itself with other wolves while a black dragon takes the skies._

_A black dragon shoots green flame out of its maw before being snapped into the jaws of the half-ling to the howls of wolves and the roars of a lion._

_The raven ascends to the Older Crow's perch and lies in wait for human betrayal and not its ancient oath._

_The headless wolf regrows its head with new blue eyes. To reach the West, it must go East. Its path laying waste to the world._

_There is no light to touch, only shadow to pass beneath._

_To go forward, The True Gods insist with bloody tears, the Older Crow must go back..._

The Three-Eyed Crow suddenly gasped and was brought back to the mortal plane. Still entwined in the roots of his weirwood nest, he forced himself to blink rapidly with his one functional eye of this domain.

"Leaf," he said, his voice raspy with disuse, "how long was it this time?"

Another being climbed the roots surrounding him and focused its cat-like gaze on him. "Only a moon," is the quick answer. The being pointed a three-fingered hand directly to his face, "Breeze has foreseen! The moon sings to us that the seasons will change. Not once, but twice. The enemy has grown weak and weary by the whispers of the winds and the rumblings of the soil. There is still time, yet."

The being jumped off the roots and sulked off without another word. Leaf knew that he was a weaker vessel for the knowledge of the Gods than they. Recovery from his visions of the possible multitude of futures took recuperation. 

"To go forward, the Old Crow must go back," he mumbled to himself. What message do the Gods give him?

Without any further thought, he opened his thousand other eyes. There were still eyes in all of the castles of Westeros from his time serving mortal affairs of the realm. Serving his hyper-vigilant need to correct his biggest mistake as just a man. 

The dizzying colors that animals capture and the solemn stark white and red of the trees quickly settled together to show him the state of the realm. 

There was time yet before his successor to be born...Winterfell's halls from above looked spartan and as ever-lasting as they did in the Age of Heroes. Subconsciously, he flew to perch on a limb directly outside of the nursery. It was a weakness of his; a last reminder that he was a man once, and not just the remaining product of the magic of the Gods.

There was his blood, bundled up in furs and in the same wooden crib as another babe. A lasting reminder of his choice of the cold Daeron over the boisterous and beloved Daemon. The product of his manipulations to fulfill Mya's prophecy and Shiera's confirmations. The brother he loved, sacrificed to produce the bloodline for this babe. Only the slightest tinge in his heart reminded of the once overwhelming look of betrayal in his brother's eyes.

Memories of his visions he had just awoken from danced in his mind's eye. This was the half-ling wolf, was it not? The wolf with dragon wings who should have been Azor Ahai, the Prince who was Promised, the Last Hero, all of the mythical titles of prophecy and lore in one? The destined savior of the Children's greatest folly. A boy who did not have the knowledge to rise to his destiny in his vision.

The only other symbol in his vision to properly matter is the younger crow, his next protege. He had been one of two, along with the dying Wildling man who served before him, in the cave at the time when he first envisioned a young Stark lad falling from a tower before flying towards his lair. It was an often-recurring vision of his. A reminder that the Gods were not so cruel as to make him suffer an eternity of servitude. 

The problem with his latest vision was that the crow was not a crow at all. Rather a raven, a bird much more likely to feast on the carrion and suffering that war produces. A bird that grouped together as a murder. It was entwining a crown in his vision...and he had flown to the Older Crow's old perch.

Surely he had taught the young boy enough to know that his life was to be confined in this very cave. The duty of serving the Children and the Gods was much more important than wearing a crown or even concerning itself with the mortal realms of men. It was akin to his vows when he was a man of the Watch. But the boy had not prepared his blood to fight the Great Other. That was the whole reason the Gods chose the boy, hoping the boy's identity and his duty to the realm would work in tandem to help their chosen.

One set of his thousand eyes came into focus and interrupted his musings. It was a familiar set of eyes, one he had in his control even before his time in the cave. A raven from his time in the Night's Watch, one he had left behind before he understood his true purpose to keep abreast of developments in young Aemon's life. The other last of his blood still remaining on Westerosi soil.

He was growing old, that much was clear. The vision had long since left his ancient eyes. His voice still held the wisdom he had learned the prince turned Maester possessed. He had not been fond of many of the Night's Watch beyond his loyal Raven's Teeth, but Aemon had been a pleasant surprise. A man in the prime of his life, but still with the fascination and proclivity of youth to pursue the arcane. 

"To go forward, I must go back," he repeated the phrase as the vision of Castle Black became another of a thousand. That was not what the Gods had said before-why did he speak it so? 

The more he thought on it, the more the lingering presence of Brynden returned to his mind, and the less of the servant of the Gods remained. Did they mean _he_ had to go back, not the three-eyed Crow. The more he thought on it, the more plausible it seemed. If _he_ were to go back, he could help the champion, his _blood,_ grow into the role. The Stark boy had clearly failed his duty.

What were another twenty years of servitude to the realm to the man who had sacrificed honor and life on the altar of duty? He had been a servant to the realm to fix his greatest mistake-the Blackfyre ascension that only grew when Aegor had overheard his and Shiera's conversation about Aemon and Naerys. He had paid the price of atonement in blood and dignity. _Kinslayer._ _Oathbreaker. Man without honor._

Yes, Brynden Rivers could help the remaining member of his blood. He had kinship to the boy beyond the blood of the dragon. He too was the blood of the First Men. He too was a bastard.

The True Gods, in their wisdom, had shown him the failure of the path he had expected to follow. The moon had sang to the Children about a change in the the Lands of Winter and a change of the seasons. They were granting an alternative. Brynden Rivers, the black-hearted bastard, would be the one to traverse it alone and correct the mistakes.

It was his duty, after all. 

He returned to his familiar raven. Aemon was half-asleep at the side of his hearth. He took a single great flap of his skin's wings before perching on his shoulder, before pecking insistently into the crook of the man's neck.

"Snow!" He cried, thankful that the raven had some modicum of ability for communication. "Sister! Sword!"

The man's milky eyes blinked as if to clear his blind vision.

"Snow! Sister! Sword!" He continued to caw his child-like message. 

"Brynden?" The man whispered, "I still have it, as I promised. The sword is to go to into the snow? I am afraid I cannot take it to the Lands of Always Winter," he said with a light chuckle.

He could only forced the raven's head to the side, back and forth. "Snow! Rivers! Waters!"

"Oh, a bastard," Aemon murmured in confirmation, "a bastard with the name of Snow will be given the sword?"

"Yes! Yes!" He cawed, "Corn!" The raven cawed as his grasp of the bird's skin fell away from him.

Yes, that would do well, Brynden thought. Dark Sister sang as surely for blood as the Children sang for the lands.

Comfortable his message was received by the ever-quick Aemon, he closed all eyes, thousand and one, and sank his fingers deeper into the roots of his weirwood tree. The realms of dreams were much more mercurial than the skins of animals.

The boy was too young yet for full communication, but images could be sent. That would do well, Brynden thought. Dreams and imprints to open his wings to their greatest potential...and he knew exactly which ones to use. They were not that far off from Brynden's dreams as a boy.


	2. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set the day before Jon's seventh name-day.  
> Young Jon ponders his dreams, learns alongside Robb and finds a new purpose.

**290**

Robb liked to insist that Jon Snow knew nothing.

It was meant in jest, of course, and always delivered with a smile. Nevertheless, it was a common one.

Robb knew full well that Jon was just as talented in their lessons with Maester Luwin for the most part, and even more talented with a sword in his hand.

But Robb had all the assurdness of an heir to a great house, while Jon was a _bastard._ Depending on who he asked, the effects of his status were either wickedness or merely a lack of inheritance. It was all very confusing for an almost seven name-day old boy. 

He was plagued with issues of doubt, unknowing his place in Winterfell and the wider world. He did not have a mother to shower him in devotion like Robb had Lady Stark (never Lady Catelyn, to him, never _Mother_ ). He only had dreams of a family separate from the Starks.

He had dreams as long as he could remember. They were so real. They were like quicksilver for the most part, never remaining in solid form long enough to grasp. Flashes and hints were all he was allowed to see.

He saw dragons in his dreams! His father's face had paled when he first heard a five name-day old Jon boast about that. But that was not all.

He had flashes of men in armor embossed with red dragons, black dragons, shooting stars, and a hundred other sigils training with their swords or in real battle. Sometimes, they would last long enough for Jon to practice the stances and flourishes with an imaginary sword next to them. He had shown Robb some and had beaten him with others, before teaching them to him afterwards.

The only dream that was constant and lasting was a dream of two children. A girl with darker skin than he had ever seen, as old looking as Sansa was now, and a pale baby with violet eyes and angular features. The girl was the only one who spoke.

The two had never aged. Some of his first memories were not of Winterfell, but being even younger than the girl and being hugged as he cried at the lack of familial touch throughout the day.

The girl would run her fingers through his curly locks and sooth him with "avy jorrāelan, valonqar" over and over again. He had asked Maester Luwin what it meant once: "I love you, little brother". He had another family out there! Maybe, possibly. 

Those dreams were better than the other, less common but ever-present, visions of a beautiful young woman, one that had his eyes and a face like his father's, covered in blood, smelling like flowers. Like the winter roses his father could not bear to look at in Winterfell's glass gardens.

He knew, deep within his heart, that was his mother. She was _dead_ and that was unfair. Robb had Lady Stark. Jon only had dreams of possible siblings and a dead mother.

As he grew older, the girl had eventually started speaking, slowly at first, and then more and more animatedly as he grew bigger than her. She said her name was 'Rhae' and the baby boy's name was 'Egg'. The three of them were siblings, she promised, even though they did not look alike.

She gave him ideas sometimes, and talked about things an infant should never know about. But the ideas were always right. She had told Jon to look up Brynden Rivers and Ser Duncan the Tall in the library when he complained that he would never be anything in life because he was a bastard and not high-born. They became his heroes, even more than Aemon the Dragonknight and the Young Dragon. 

It had made all the crass remarks and looks of scorn about Jon's status as a bastard not as bad. Jon was a bastard, and he could not change that. But he had a maybe-sister and brother that did not care, and Robb certainly did not. Jon might not have a name, but he had Robb.

Jon could be the Bloodraven to Robb's Daeron! The Ser Duncan to his Aegon V! He was not greedy, he was loyal. Loyal beyond words to his half-brother, that swore on their shared blood to never let their fates break them apart as brothers.

His sister even promised to tell him his mother's name when he had his name-day. That was tomorrow!

He could finally know. The uncertainty was the worst part, even worse than the Greyjoy boy's sneers and belittlement. 

He had only asked his father once where Rhae and Egg were and why they were not with him. His father had shouted at him to stop imagining things. His father, the ever-kind and eternally patient man that always gave him and Robb smiles, had never yelled like that before or since.

So Jon learned never to ask, and only crawl into bed late at night with Robb when the dreams became too much, too vivid. They were supposed to be _men_ soon and still he could not sleep without his brother's arms around him while he shivered for Rhae's hugs.

He slowly got up from bed, shaking all thoughts of his dreams and woes out of his head. He was still Robb's brother, and that bond was more sacred than a sister and brother that were probably a figment of his imagination.

After dressing in his usual black tunic and trousers, he stumbled all throughout Winterfell to remove the cobwebs of slumber from his mind. He had to kip off for something from the Great Hall to break his fast before their lessons began. He ran off with a small heel of bread stuffed with soft cheese and eventually found his way next to Robb at Maester Luwin's table. He was still nibbling on the crusty end of the bread when the lessons on the Northern Houses began again.

They had just reviewed "House Karstark. Words: The Sun of Winter. Sigil: A black-", when Theon Greyjoy sauntered into the room and plopped himself at the other end of the table. He was always late to their morning lessons. It was as predictable as his arrogance.

It had been like that for the few months since their father returned from the Greyjoy Rebellion with the older boy in tow. He and Robb had been nice to him, at first. Robb had taken him under his wing and tried to show him all that they loved about the Wolfswood and Winterfell. Theon had been nice to Robb for the kindness, but the constant sneering in Jon's direction and the taunting in the training yard had made his friendship to the heir sizzle out along with any hope of Jon's.

"I don't see why you bother teaching us these backwood Houses," the ward moaned, "I am a prince! We should be learning about _my_ kingdom. Mayhaps I'll give Snow a salt wife if he serves me long enough. Better than a bastard deserves!"

"Now Lord Theon," Maester Luwin placated, "you are no longer a prince. Your father bent the knee to our good King Robert. And Lord Robb's duty is to serve as the high Lord of these lands one day. Young Jon may be his castellan, master-at-arms or some other position in the castle. It is important to review them regularly, as to be ever-prepared to service the needs of his future bannermen."

"I think Jon deserves more than that, Squid," Robb responded snidely, before turning to the Maester and asking more politely, "and Maester Luwin, could Jon not be my Hand of the King? We read all about Bloodraven again yesterday after our lessons! Jon could have a thousand eyes, and two!"

"The Lord of Winterfell does not have a Hand of the King," Luwin said, "but he may be the equivalent to you one day. Your father relies on the council of not one man, but of myself, his steward and his master-at-arms all to make the running of the castle and the lands go smoothly. There is nothing to say your brother cannot be a part of a similar council when you ascend to your position. Before we get back to the Northern Houses like we should, I will give you all the opportunity to answer a question. The lad with the right answer can decide on our lesson tomorrow. Who was the last Hand of the King in North and to whom was he Hand?"

"King Torrhen!" Robb cried before the other two could get a word in, "The King who Knelt. But er-I don't know who his Hand was." Robb looked guilty at the half-completed answer. Jon rolled his eyes at his brother, sniggering at the look on his face.

"It was Brandon Snow, Maester," Jon said dryly. He did not want to seem too eager, and have Robb to find that Rhae had actually talked about him once. He had the magic to _maybe_ defeat a dragon with special arrows and he was a bastard too!

"Very good, Jon," Luwin smiled, "and what would you like to study on the morrow? Your Lord Father wanted us to review the Houses of the North and then cover siege defense, but that should not last the three days of the week at your level."

"Robb?" He turned to his brother, "do you have anything you want to study?" He knew that Robb was less inclined to books than Jon was; Robb only liked to read about the Great Battles, and then recreate them with their wooden, carved soldiers. The two had played out most of the Battle of Redgrass Field before they realized that it was too much of a coup, and uninteresting. Robb swore he would _never_ be so stupid as to not know there were archers on the cliffs.

"But it's your name-day! We can study anything you want! I'll even sit through a boring lecture on herbs and be nice about it!" Jon rolled his eyes at his brother again. He did not truly know why herbs were important, but Rhae swore they were, so Jon asked after them with only minor hesitation and forced interest.

"How about the Disputed Lands? We can learn about the Company of the the Rose and what they do over there!" Seeing an eager nod in response, they turned to the Maester who acquiesced.

"That's boring, but what do you expect from children? You should study real men, like House Hoare. Learn from 'em," Theon scoffed. The brothers only shared a look. Some things were never going to change.

"Ahem, as we were before we got off course. Lord Theon, can you please tell me what the sigil of House Karstark is?" 

* * *

After their morning lessons with Maester Luwin, the three boys made their way down to the practice yard for their daily weapons work. Ser Rodrick had bushy whiskers attached to the sides of their face, long since graying, but was a kind man that radiated experience. He had taught their father and uncles how to use a sword and trained all of the guards of Winterfell in the mornings while they had their lessons in the library.

Robb and Jon stood solemnly in front of their instructor, hands straight at their sides, while Theon stood off to the side kicking the dirt below. The brothers had long since learned that having discipline and respect were the keys to earn the knight's continued favor.

"Ah, boys! Good, good, right on time. You two look eager as ever. Ha, my finest students! And ya, Theon lad, don't look like we're wielding live steel and pointin' it at your heart. Ya want to start with a bow? You showed the most promise of the three of ya with it in your hands," Ser Rodrick boomed.

At that, Theon perked up slightly and strutted over to the weapons racks, before grabbing the recurve bow that was slightly larger than the twin bows the brothers used. Without a word, he made his way to the range and strung his bow. Arrows began to whiz out from his drawn arrows in a quick motion. 

Despite Jon and Robb's best efforts, Theon was more naturally inclined to the bow than the two of them. It may have been due to experience-Theon had boasted his father had 'paid the Iron Price' for a dragon-bone bow for Theon that he practiced with. It was the last gift Theon received from his father before the Rebellion and Theon's forced exile.

Jon and Robb had only been practicing for a short while-the three months since Robb's seventh name-day. Even that had been a concession from their Lord Father. He had allegedly not started in the yard until he was _nine!_ That was practically ancient.

He had caught Jon and Robb playing with sticks as swords in the Godswood one twilight after supper. They were worried they would have been in trouble; instead, he only roared back with laughter, muttered about Uncle Benjen and other things and declared they were doing "too good of a job to not cultivate the talent".

It had been one of the proudest moments of their lives, and Lord Stark had beamed at them for a week afterwards. Lady Stark was naturally upset, convinced that her son (not Jon, never Jon) was too young and precious for the training yard, but their father's insistence had won the day. After a week of glowering at each other over meals, they compromised that Robb, and by extension Jon, would start after Robb's name-day.

Ser Rodrik only made a noise of displeasure before gesturing the boys to follow suit. Jon strung his bow, and picked up an arrow from the quiver built next to where the practicing archers stood. Breathe, he thought, deep breath in and pull back. Know where the arrow is going to go without aiming for too long. Shoot!

The arrow sailed and hit the outermost ring of the target, on the left side. Jon frowned. He replayed the instructions that they had been given for the past few months in his mind. He had done it all right! It should have flown into the center, like half of the stupid ward's arrows seemed to.

He tried again, taking more time than Ser Rodrick would want to aim. The second arrow shot through the air and missed the target all together, landing in the dirt just under it. 

Breathe, he chanted in his mind, pull back. The arrow is going in the center, look at the center, feel the arrow and shoot. The third hit closer than the first, in the second to last circle, though still well away from the center on the right this time. He groaned.

Glancing over at Robb's target, it at least looked like his brother was not fairing too much better. All of Robb's arrows had landed on the target at least, but were clustered together on the far right of the outermost ring. He watched as his brother was struggling to pull the weight of the draw back and get the arrow fully to his ear to take the shot, before firing and landing in a similar position.

He focused back on his own shooting, and felt the same strain that was obvious in his brother. He had not been looking for it, but the draw was too heavy-getting the string to become taut with pressure for more than a blink of eye was causing his shoulders to burn in agony.

Still, Ser Rodrik had told them this was to be expected as novices. If they dare complain about it, they would be forced to run the perimeter of the training yard three times per complaint before continuing on the practice. It was harsh punishment and only made the exercises worse.

He lowered his arm after a moment, using a different muscle to pull the string back. He had marginally more strength in whatever muscle he was using and fired off the arrow. This one hit almost close to the center! He could barely believe his eyes.

Ser Rodrik took notice of the very rare good shot by Jon and beckoned him to repeat his success. He returned to his lower position, breathed and aimed as best as he could. This shot did not have nearly the same success. It hit Robb's target this time, just off the side. Jon flushed a deep red.

"Ha! That's what cheatin' gets ya, Jon! Proper stance, proper technique, everytime. Remember, these skills are built up over a lifetime. Greyjoy over there's four years older than the two of you. Don't let his teasin' get to your heads. Pull that bow-arm up, boy!" Ser Rodrik laughed.

The three continued to shoot their bows, picking up their arrows a few times as they exhausted their supplies. By the time they had finished, Jon was already sweating through his tunic and his muscles were strained. Finally, mercy was earned.

"Good work boys! Theon, excellent shootin'. You'll be the finest bow on the Isles yet, I tell you. Now, we'll go to the our sword-work. Jon and Robb, two of you up first!"

Robb and Jon's duel always took place first before Theon could partake. The two were better than the older boy already: they had been practicing for as long as they could walk without tumbling down. The movements with sticks instead of wooden swords was of course not the same, but Rhae had insisted that skill with a sword was vital since Jon could remember talking. Most of the longer bursts of memories in dreams dealt with expert swordsman Jon had only read about learning their craft.

Robb grabbed the longer of the training swords before throwing Jon the shorter one. Robb had found his calling in using a miniature bastard sword, while Jon favored a more typical longsword. The two had japed about it for weeks, the heir with a bastard sword and the bastard without, when Ser Rodrik identified Robb's strengths as attuned to a bastard sword.

The two stood several strides apart and respectfully bowed before beginning their duel when Ser Rodrik hollered out a beginning cry. 

They had been doing this their entire lives. The two knew the others' moves, having learned together from barely more than infancy through Jon's dreams, or in the yard with Ser Rodrik lately. Their matches would always be close.

The two eyed each other with joyful suspicion. Robb held his sword in one hand for the time being, though his strikes would later come two-handed when necessary. He presented his side to Jon, and stood boldly with his sword held high. Jon's stance had a lower balance and his sword was held loosely, pointed downwards. It gave Robb an even smaller target to attack.

Ser Rodrik had complained good-naturedly once that he had the stance of a 'bloody summer knight', but never sought to correct the stance. Jon had used it to their instructor's sanctification, so he developed and refined it.

Robb struck out first. He gave a bruising strike directly downwards at Jon's head. He quickly parried, and his counter-slash was dodged with little effort. The two traded strikes, with Robb following parries with another strike to different places on Jon. Low to the legs, high to the head, or pushed towards his center, Jon dodged most, only parrying when it was forced, and his own strikes were batted away.

He had heard a man named 'Ser Quentyn' once tell a young blonde boy that "a parry can be re-directed. A dodge ends all momentum'. He had been made to work on keeping his footwork light and spry by Ser Rodrik and could practically dance away from most of even the quickest of blows.

The two allowed the muted song of wooden swords to play for all of the wandering eyes of Winterfell's courtyard. All eyes, be it servant or off-duty guard, were on the heir of Winterfell and his bastard brother, as their blades danced around each other.

Robb was never patient in their daily lives, but his fighting style could be against Jon. Their strikes were targeted and planned. A false strike could spell the end of their spar. Robb always met a riposte with its counter.

'A back-step implies weakness, submission', Jon heard in his mind. 'Do you want your weakness to be exploited, or do you use it to manipulate? Only you can answer, boy!' An old man's voice, one that sounded like a rougher and older version of his father's, rang through his head.

Jon faced a two-handed strike from his brother and took a step back to parry the blow. He did not strike back, instead allowing Robb to continue the assault. Another step back to dodge. Another to parry. The trap was set.

He had been secretly practicing this move for almost a fortnight in the privacy of his chambers. He had a dream with two men with purple eyes, one distinctly Valyrian and lithe, one more rugged and stocky. The stocky man had demonstrated and explained.

'One man. One sword. One movement,' he had intoned to the other. 'This move can only be done when the three act as one.'

He met a wide blow to his right side with his blade. He fluidly moved his blade down Robb's blades length and twisted his sword hand as he did it, reaching the crossguard. The downward motion of the sword was one with the twisting motion. His wrist snapped just as soon as the sword reached its target.

Robb's blade was taken from his hands as soon as the flourish was executed. Jon brought his blade to Robb's throat and received a yield given with a smile. A faint murmur rang throughout the courtyard. It would have been cheers if it was the heir, not the bastard.

"Good move, Jon!" Robb spoke jovially, "you'll have to show me that soon. I knew ya had something up your sleeve with the way you've been prancing around your chambers in the middle of the night."

Jon nodded with a smile. Robb was never bitter about Jon's victories. He won too, after-all. Just not as often as Jon. The two boys were flushed with exertion and Jon's muscles shouted in protest.

Ser Rodrik burst through the brother's bubble of love and slapped Jon heartily on the back. "While, I never! Damned good disarming for a tyke, Jon. The two of ya have enough talent to make this old man seem like the best master-of-arms in Westeros!"

"And we'll be sure to credit you with all we know, Ser," Robb japed back.

"Damn right! Now Theon lad, you face off with Jon here. See if he's too tired for another knightly victory," Rodrik boomed.

Theon grumbled his protest about 'fighting against savage children' but moved to pick up a training sword and took up a stance opposite Jon. Jon gave him a bow at Ser Rodrik's instruction, and of course did not receive one in return.

At the call to battle, the two began their spar. Jon struck first with a sweeping swing to Theon's legs. The boy barely managed to stumble away before Jon's next over the head strike met his path. Getting his sword up in time, Theon blocked the blow with ease.

The older boy was much stronger than the brothers, but his counter-strike was wide and undisciplined. Jon took a step back and allowed it to complete its arc in front of him. Theon had already overextended. Pushing the false edge of Theon's blade with his sword, the arc soon made Theon expose his entire body to Jon. He gave a quick slash to the chest, that would have opened his belly if it were a duel with steel.

Theon only grew angry at the quick bruising blow. Jon took a step back and allowed the older boy to center himself and correct his stance before they began in earnest. Jon's strikes were only met with quick parries before Theon had to block another.

Jon pushed forward with his attacks, and forced the boy on the defensive. FInally, Theon parried and slashed back, aiming at the Jon's head. Stepping to the right, he batted away the strike and swung upwards to aim his blade at the boy's throat in a counter-riposte.

Unfortunately, the strike landed too truly and cut through the air past Theon's throat and the wooden blade knocked him against the chin.

"Damn it, bastard!" Theon cried before returning to their spar with anger.

Wild, strong swings made it impossible for Jon to parry well. They were much too strong, and the one he did have to block turned his sword-arm numb. He ducked and weaved through the aggressive swings, before finally spotting an opening. He merely waited for the right moment before leveling his sword against the boy's chest where his heart would be.

"Yield," he said with some difficulty through his labored breath. The boy looked like he was going to continue the assault, but nodded, similarly winded.

"You might be good with a blade, Snow, but remember your place is nowhere. I'm a prince and you're nothing," Theon sneered. "Say, do you think your mother will take the day off from the whorehouse and come for your name-day? Give ya a kiss with that mouth she uses?"

Jon immediately brought his blade back up to strike Theon for _daring_ to insult his mother like that. Before he could pummel the boy into the ground, a light hand squeezed his shoulder and drew him back. 

Robb looked at him with concern blooming in his striking blue eyes. He knew Jon was sensitive about his mother, if not his bastard status. Blue battled with gray in a silent force of wills, before Jon nodded and threw his sword to the ground.

"I'll give him a good bruising, Snow," Robb murmured to his brother. 

"Thanks, Stark, I'm just gonna...go."

"Don't pose for any portraits while you brood," Robb smiled. "See you for supper tonight, aye?" 

"Aye," Jon mumbled, before turning to Ser Rodrik and giving a half-hearted bow for the lesson. He took the coward's approach and fled the training yard.

* * *

Jon had intended to retreat to the Godswood of Winterfell. It was his usual haunting ground for his 'brooding sessions', as Robb so lovingly called it.

Lost in his head, stewing in anger, he barely noticed his surroundings. He ambled, lost in thought, only being sure to avoid being underfoot of the adults hustling through their duties to the castle.

When he finally had calmed down enough to take in his bearings, he realized that he was close to the Eastern gate. He and Robb had hardly ever explored this far. Their father had insisted that they remain close to the lord's area of the Castle, or play in the Godswood or training yard when they had too much youthful exuberance. 

Eager to see a different sight of Winterfell, Jon blazed the path ahead, taking in the sight of the imposing gate that connected Winterfell to Winter Town. Three guards were posted above the entrance, armed with bows, while two pairs flanked the opened doors of the gate on each side.

The guards of Winterfell were always mostly friendly with Jon, and tended to ignore him when he was without Robb or his Lord Father. They were unsure how to interact with the boy; as the Lord's son, he was treated with respect, but his status and Lady Stark's ire meant that they did not cater and scrape for his approval.

Posted on the right side of gate on the inside of the castle was Harwin. He was the teenage son of their Master of Horse, Hullen. Filled out and as tall as a grown man. Only Harwin's inability to grow a beard bore testament of his youth. He had been especially kind to Jon and Robb in their youthful adventures. He and Jory Cassel often indulged the boys with demonstrations on swordplay or riding faster than Hullen liked to allow the boys.

"Jon, lad! Good to see ya in me part of the castle! On an errand to the town, then? It's been fillin' up right quick. You know what they say-Winter is Coming!" He said, laughing at his own joke.

Jon's eyes grew wide. He truly did not have a reason to be there, but he did want to see Winter Town now that it was filled with more than empty homes and ghosts. 

He and Robb had ridden through exactly twice with their father, who pointed out the preparations that they had been making for the inevitable winter, but the population was sparse at best. Only a quarter of the homes were ever filled, and business only trickled in to the couple of establishments that set up shop.

"Er, yes..." Jon said slowly, "any sights I should see?" He tried to smile bravely at the guard.

"Bit too young for the new Prancer's, I reckon! No lad, do your errand and be back right quick. Lord Robb will wanna be causin' some sorta mischief with you when the sun's still high in the air, no doubt," Harwin said, giving Jon a nod of dismissal.

Jon strode confidently past the remaining guardsman, hoping that he would not be questioned when he returned about his goings in the town. This was something new and different! Robb would be jealous he went alone, and he could brag all supper about it.

Jon took in the sights of Winter Town while he walked the badly cobbled streets. The buildings were little more than huts with wooden walls and roofs. The builders of House Stark had spent all summer repairing the rotted sidings and ensuring that people would have a home when the time came for smallfolk all over the North to come and seek shelter.

The streets were busier than his previous visits. Before, there had been a lone traveler at best. Now, throngs of grey-bearded men and many women and children flocked the roads, bunched together to escape the worst of the summer chills. 

It was a struggle to navigate the narrow roads without bumping into other travelers. He ducked and weaved through the crowd, straining his neck all the while to look at the inhabitants find their shelter. Most of the buildings were used to house families, and he wanted to see something different.

He was stopped short when he bumped into the knees of a particularly tall man from behind. The man turned around to confront him. He was large in both height and size, with a bushy gray beard with patches of red. His cheeks were full and flushed in the cold, but the smile on his face when he took in the sight of Jon was infectious.

"Watch where you're goin' lad! I can hardly believer yer so blind to miss the sight of big ol' me! Har!" The man boomed. Jon blushed at his words. It would be hard indeed to miss the sight of the man's imposing figure.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Jon promised, "I was trying to go around you. I've never seen Winter Town this busy. Do you know why, ser?"

"Ain't no southron Ser, pah! Can yer imagine me struttin' around like a daisy in plate? Name's Benfry, everyone calls me Ben. Lotta us here from House Umber lands. Us and the mountain folk feel the winds howl with winter 'fore ya down in these here parts. The Old Gods gave us a sign the summers stoppin' off. Figured we'd make the journey before the snow buries even me in its blanket!" The man was certainly jovial. He reminded Jon of the GreatJon. It made sense they shared a homeland.

"I'm Jon, it's nice to meet you...do you know where Prancer's is? I was supposed to go there..." Jon trailed off. Harwin had talked about Prancer's being a place for adults. Mayhaps Jon could find a _really_ good story to tell Robb there.

"Prancer's? Hmm...oh! That's no place for ya lad. Need a bit more whiskers on yer face to make that trip!" 

"No, you misunderstand. I"m supposed to meet with my father there. I got lost on the way..." he pouted. It was an obvious lie, but the man's smile only grew at his words.

"Alright then lad, if ya say so! I wouldn't let me boy to know I was visitin', spending coin with winter on our tails, but to each his own. See that bigger buildin' just ahead? Two to the right, and one back this way, you'll find Prancer's. Tell your pa not ta go too frequent. Off with you!" The man said, with a large smile and wave.

Jon followed the directions and walked past the bigger buildings clustered in this area. He saw a bakery with a line out the door, the smell of fresh bread wafting out and making his mouth water. Next to it was the tanner's hut, not nearly as busy. The building adjacent to Prancer's was a trapper's little shop that sold furs, if the pelts hanging in the storefront were any indication. That was much busier, with people spending their hard-earned coin on clothes for this alleged winter.

He finally came upon his destination. It was a building rare in appearance. Instead of being build with wood, it had stone walls and a roof made of bronze, gleaming in the high sun. There were even glass windows on the store-front, and the smells of the building only barely trickled out. They were herbal and fragrant. He had only smelled something similar in the Lady Stark's chambers.

Peering inside the glass windows, Jon took in Prancer's for a long moment. The shop, whatever it sold, was not as busy as the baker's, but it was still filled with men clustered around tables. They seemed to be drinking and roaring with laughter and Jon could see men and women walking in tandem up the stairs every so often.

Jon did not see the appeal. Jory had told he and Robb once that the Smoking Log was the finest alehouse in the North. Surely these men should be there drinking? 

His thoughts were disrupted by a cry from the back of the building. Without thinking, he decided to investigate the shout.

As he scrambled to the back of the buildings, he saw a rotund man towering over a woman on the ground, with a boy about Theon's age whimpering behind the woman. The man was not particularly tall, but he nevertheless dwarfed the woman and was shouting down at her prone form.

"Ruddy, no good, used up whore!" He shouted at the woman, who was now openly weeping. "That lad of yers stealin' our bread. That's fer payin' customers, not the spawn of a slut!"

He broke up his shouts with a kick to the woman's still form. Jon had seen enough. He knew from his father that a Lord's duty was to protect the innocent, particularly women. He was not a lord, but he could still do the duty of a son of Eddard Stark.

"Hey!" He shouted at the man, who looked up from the woman, rage bubbling behind the surface of his gaze and his cheeks turning even more ruddy. "Leave her alone!"

He soon realized that his interjection was a mistake, when the man took a menacing step towards him. The man's victim lay forgotten, and his ire was now directed at Jon, still several strides away. 

Jon desperately met the wide, pale eyes of the other lad. Jon nodded down at the assortment of rocks and logs used for the hearth in order for the boy to arm himself. The two of them, with a surprise, may be able to beat back the man and save this woman.

The boy's gaze flinched away from Jon and he shook his head frantically. Sighing, Jon forced himself to breathe and remain calm. The man was still some distance away from him, and there were some smaller stones lying around Jon's feet.

"Who do ya think ya are, boy?! I'm doin' my Lord's work and protectin' the business here! This whore and the boy she squirted out are good-for-nothin' anyway. She's too old to be more than a fuck for a blind man. Settin' her to the curb will do our Lord proud. Leave me to my business and I'll forget yer folly," the man harshly spoke to Jon. 

"Leave her alone!" Jon shouted back. He was getting angry, but he knew he had to be careful. "My father would never let you beat anyone, even if they stole. Get a lord's justice, if it pleases you."

The man looked bemused and shook his head at Jon's words. Jon knew he was not a threat to the older man, but still grabbed three larger stones and cradled them against his side. If he threw them hard enough, he could maybe distract the man long enough for the two to escape.

As he set his plan into action, he was glad that the distraction had stirred the woman enough to get off the ground and scamper to the side of the young boy. The two sneaked away as Jon let the first stone out of his hands. 

His aim was true and hit the man's side. It did not look to be particularly hurtful and only made the man speed up to reach out for Jon's arm. Jon backed away and let off the other two, hurling them at his target. 

As soon as the last stone left his grasp, he began to run back towards the front of Prancer's and the other shops. The man ran after him for a moment, his breath puffing out of his cheeks, before giving up on Jon as a lost cause. The man grumbled and said some words that Jon was told before to _never_ repeat before making his way up the two stone steps and walked into the back entrance. 

Waiting for a moment, Jon turned back and crept towards the back entrance once again. He had to be vigilant to make sure the man did not return through the door. As he stalked past, he soon saw the door was closed tight, and he was safe.

He sped up as he left Prancer's behind him. What a stupid mistake, he thought. He could have been really hurt. For all of his skills with a wooden sword, he did not have any actual defensive skills against a much older man.

Eventually, his pace was quick enough to reach the pair that he had saved. The woman was visibly limping and holding onto the shorter boy for support. Jon caught up soon, and meant to speak his mind.

"Hey!" he called to grab their attention, "you saw what I was going to do and you didn't help! I _saved_ you!"

"You talk about yer father, m'lord," the boy sneered. Jon was shocked. He was a Lord's son and saved them. They should be grateful and not sneering! "Not all of us have a lordly pa to run back to when they get into a fight. I woulda been beat, then left on the street. Not all of us prance about in our high castle and learn to wave a sword and defend ourselves!"

The woman looked at the boy disapprovingly. "What my son means to say is 'thank you', m'lord. We'll be on our way and no bother, promise m'lord. Isn't that right, Dame?" She turned and fixed her son with a fierce glare.

"Yes, thank you, m'lord. Now 'if it pleases you', we'll haveta find shelter 'fore ma's coins run out. I didn't steal nothin'! That bastard had it out for ma, didn't like her puttin' me up in the rooms with 'er when she was off-shift," the boy muttered with a glare.

Jon's incredulity only worsened. He had never thought about it. Even as a bastard, he had Ser Rodrik teaching him. This boy probably did not even have a father, let alone one who could teach him to use a sword. 

"Look," Jon huffed out, "I'm sorry, alright? I just wanted to save you! And I'm not a lord-just a bastard," he said with a weak smile.

The boy gazed up at him with distrust, but not the fierce anger from before. "Right then," the boy said after a moment. "Thanks. I'm glad me ma didn't get too banged up. See ya around, I guess."

Jon wanted to tuck his tail between his legs and flee. The boy had been conciliatory and that was probably the best Jon was going to get. But he had a thought. "Wait," he started, thinking as he spoke, "do you want me to come back some time and teach you how to use a sword? I'm new at it-but what could it hurt? You can protect your mother...I never knew mine," he whispered the last part out.

The boy stared deep into Jon's gray eyes, looking for something? Dishonesty? Pity? Jon was not sure. Whatever answers Dame was looking for, he seemed to find in the gaze. "Sure. Couldn't hurt, I suppose."

"Alright! I can come down after noon meal on the first and fifth day of the sennight, for a couple of hours at least. Bring your friends if they want to learn?" Jon said.

The boy shrugged, but nodded his head that the time would work for him.

"See you then! We'll meet by the bakery after noon. And my name is Jon. Jon Snow," he extended his hand out to the boy.

Dame examined it for a long moment, before the two clasped forearms. A pact was sworn that day.

* * *

Jon returned to the castle with no fuss, but nearly was late to evening meal as a result of his excursion into Winter Town. He had thought to find a story to tell Robb about the travels for their mealtime discussion. Somehow, this trip did not seem like a conversation for the dinner table.

The family gathered to eat alongside young Barth and his wife. Their father always ate supper with a different family in service to Winterfell. He had told Robb and Jon when they were still young enough to sit on his knees for their meal that it was important to understand their men's lives if they wanted to be a good lord.

Jon ate his chicken pie, stuffed with peas and carrots, quietly alongside the rest of them. Robb's attention had been commandeered by his mother for most of the evening, with her giving etiquette lessons about his 'slovenly and distasteful eating habits'. Jon was only glad that he avoided the scrutiny.

As their plates emptied, Lord Stark turned away from his discussion with Barth on the new ale recipes the man wanted to try and turned his gaze to his two sons.

"Jon, son," he began with a small smile for him, "you do know that you're welcome to come when I hold court, even with a visiting lord? I know that Lord Forrester would not be offended by your presence. Robb could have used you by his side for the afternoon. Mayhaps he would have fidgeted less." 

Jon had honestly forgot that Lord Forrester was going to partake in the open court sessions his father held every third day. He had arrived from Ironrath yesterday, and had some sort of grievance that required the Warden of the North's direct attention and needed to be settled in person, rather than through letters by raven.

He blushed when Lady Stark made a faint sound of disapproval but nodded his head at the words. He did know that he was always welcome to take a seat by the side of Robb during these sessions where their father settled disputes and served justice. Despite Lady Stark's protests, he had always been treated as another son of his father and was welcome to the same lessons and opportunities to learn at his father's feet as Robb. 

His father had once almost acquiesced to Lady Stark's opinion that he need not learn the finer parts of the Warden of the North's responsibilities last year. He had sat Jon down and explained that Robb was the heir and that he needed specialized lessons to meet the needs of his bannermen.

Robb had a big enough tantrum that Jon joined every lesson since.

"I know, father, thank you," he said with flushed cheeks. He was not going to willing say that he went to Winter Town and brushed off the session without a thought. Robb had not even reminded him!

"Good. You have my blood, the same as Robb. And you're the only one to keep the boy in check," he chuckled. "Now, the information that Lord Forrester presented is quite serious indeed. It was truly worthy of the trip here. I will have to make a visit to handle it personally and will leave at first light on the morrow."

Jon looked down at his empty plate and frowned. Of course he knew that duty came first to his father. If there was an issue in the North, Lord Stark would handle it swiftly. It was the way of House Stark.

But Jon wished that his father was there on his name-day.

Lord Stark did not seem to notice the inner turmoil within Jon, and turned to his heir. "Now Robb, can you explain to Jon what the issue was? And most importantly, please give us an opinion on how I should handle it when I arrive?" 

This was a common 'learning technique' Lord Stark used on them, at least according to their father. He would have them present their opinions on the ruling and critique them and share what he thought only after they made a first attempt at a solution. They would do it for anything from trade, to justice, to warfare. 

"House Whitehill has been encouching on the lands of House Forrester and tried to take too many Ironwood trees. They beat a man in the woods who protested that the were on the lands of House Forrester and not their own," Robb dutifully recited.

"Encroached, but aye. Good job, Robb," father said warmly, "and what would you recommend?"

"I'd see to the man who was beaten and find the men who did it! They should get justice for the beating. Then I'd make a more clear border between the lands and say the next person to go over it is going straight for the Wall!" Robb said after a moment's thought.

"Not a bad plan, son," his father encouraged, "but I will need to hear what the circumstances of the 'beating' were. Lord Forrester will no doubt paint it as an unprovoked attack on one of his men. Those Houses are beyond stubborn-chances are the men were brawling with one another, and there is not much to be done about that other than a warning. Their feud is older than the Conquest of Westeros. I will give them escalating punishment for violating the border between lands, however. That is all I can really do in this situation."

Jon liked to hear his father speak on the issues surrounding the North. Jon always heard the pride in his father's voice when discussing the different parts and people of the region, but he never sugarcoated his opinion that sometimes people were more bull-headed and stubborn than anywhere else in Westeros. He also rarely held the truth from the two young boys. They were soon to be men. Robb needed to know how to lead his family as well as Lord Stark did now.

The two boys nodded dutifully at the decision that their Father would take and let the conversation at the table grind to an end. With everyone at the table finished, Lord Stark rose from his chair, thanked Barth and his wife for their company and the group followed suit and rose alongside their lord.

As they began to exit the hall, Lord Stark lingered behind before calling out for Jon. Did his father know that he was lying and in Winter Town? Jon could not help but think about his ill luck.

His concerns melted away as he heard his father begin to speak, "son, don't think I forgot what tomorrow is. I'm sorry that I will not be around to celebrate your name-day. I'm sure Robb will make it one to remember, but I need to handle this before the Whitehills and Forresters drag themselves to bloodshed."

Jon met the eyes of his father, the ones so like his own. Of course he should have known that his father would not forget. An apology was okay, he understood his Lord Father's duty. It was inherited by Jon and Robb too.

"Don't worry Father," he replied with a smile, "I know you wouldn't miss my name-day if it was not important. Robb and I will find something special to do."

"Some mischief to get in to, no doubt," his father said lightly, "and I did hear that there was a pony you have taken a shine to in the stables. The one right next to Robb's, black instead of amber? Is that right?"

Robb had gotten the pony from his parents for his last name-day. It was specially bought from House Ryswell, the finest horse-breeders in the North. When they came with the present, they had left several others of middling stock for the stables at a lower cost. When Robb and Jon had riding lessons, Jon always had drifted to the midnight-colored one.

"Yes, father. It never has another person to ride it when we're there to ride, I promise!" He hoped he had not overstepped. He just liked the pony. It responded to the faintest of his touches.

"You misunderstand me, son. That pony is to be yours alone now. Happy name-day."

Unbidden tears came up into Jon's eyes. A pony was no trinket. It was a true and proper gift. It was undoubtedly the finest gift he had ever received. 

He reached out and sought the embrace of his father for a hug. Embracing Jon in his strong arms, his father let the unshed tears dry up in Jon's eyes before ruffling his hair and sending him off for the night.

* * *

Jon settled in for the night in his bed, almost breathless in anticipation.

This was the night that Rhae would tell him about their mother. It was a gift even more precious than the pony his father had just allowed him to keep.

He struggled for a long time that night, tossing and turning. The furs on his bed seemed to coil around him and threaten to choke the breath from his lungs.

Finally, he drifted into a restless slumber.

He had expected the familiar sight of Egg and Rhae to greet him when he fell into his dreams. Instead, memories began to flash in his mind's eye.

_'Benny!' A young woman cried through a door. It looked like it was in the family section of Winterfell. 'I don't want to marry that oaf. He had a wench on each knee that very night after he met me! He'll squirt a bastard in every serving girl while leaving me with a bed colder than yours in the Night's Watch.'_

_'Elia, I don't know what to do,' a man he had seen sparring in his dreams held the hands of a woman that looked like Rhae with black eyes instead of a dark indigo, 'I know you don't believe me, but I saw the comet the night we conceived Aegon. I went on a walk with Arthur that night, and it was_ there. _The portents all point to it. What are we to do?'_

_The couple again appeared alone in a bed chamber, with the man holding a crown of red dragon-lilies. 'Thank you, Elia. You are truly a Queen of Love and Beauty. I'm glad you can admire her too,' he says as he places the crown of flowers on her brow. 'The dragon must have three heads.'_

_'I cannot take you as a wife for true, but Elia and I made this maiden cloak to put you in our protection,' the man says to another woman. He had seen this woman before! She was usually laying in a pool of blood. The cloak had the face of a weirwood, laughing merrily at a joke the God's have told. 'Who comes before the Old Gods tonight?' He hears in the distance._

_The man and his mother lay together in a room at the top of the Tower. He is plucking lightly on a harp. He dedicates the 'Song of Ice and Fire' to a woman named Visenya and begins to play with a soft smile, and eyes for only his mother._

_'What if it is a boy?' his mother asks the man. 'Don't be silly, the Gods will fashion us a daughter as lovely as you. My family has seen it in their dreams.'_

_The familiar vision returns. His mother lays in a pool of blood, the smell of winter roses ever-present. This time, the vision lasts longer. The door of the room, the same room the man played his song, opens. There is his father! He rushes to hold his mother's hand. 'Lya, can you hear me?' He begs. 'Ned, is that you? You're not a dream?' She can only whisper. 'I'm here Lya, Winterfell calls you home. Come back with me, sister.' That is why they look so much alike! His mother is his father's...sister? Then that must mean...'The boy is Rhaegar's, Ned. Promise me to raise him as your own. He may not have a name, but he has our blood. He will still be in danger. You know he will! Promise me, Ned. Promise me.' His...uncle can only weep as the life leaves his mother's eyes._

Suddenly, the flashes stop, and he finds himself in the familiar presence of Rhae and Egg. He understands a little better now. They are the son and daughter of...Rhaegar and Elia. He used to be half-siblings with Robb, Sansa and baby Arya. Now he has these two half-siblings through his father.

Rhae can somehow understand the thoughts in his head. "Just like Robb has always told you, you are our _brother._ You must do our family proud. The Starks are your family just as much as us. You are descended from two royal bloodlines. You must make both sides proud. Promise me, Jon. Promise me."

Jon awakes with a scream.

He threw off the furs of his bed and rushed out of the room to go find the sanctuary of Robb's. Robb would understand his nightmares and could talk some sense into him.

He slipped into his brother's room without a knock. He was sad to see that his brother was out cold, but he needed to talk. He needed his _brother's_ reassurance as much as he needed air in his lungs.

Shaking his brother awake, Jon saw the flash of recognition in his eyes. "Jon, another nightmare?" He sleepily asked.

"Robb, yes...but this one was different. What if I were not your brother?" He whispered out in fear.

"What are you talking about, stupid? You look just like Father. Even more than me," his brother said.

"I think I'm Aunt Lyanna's son. My dreams never lie. You know it to be true. My dreams showed me your father promising to raise me," he said, as he searched his brother's eyes for some hint of disgust or betrayal.

"I don't care if you're our father's son, or Aunt Lyanna's, or bloody Hodor's. You're my brother. You're Ned Stark's son. Nothing will change that. Nothing will change our years together. You're stuck with me, Snow. Now come in and keep your cold toes to yourself," was Robb's only declaration.

With Robb's arms around him, Jon somehow knew it to be true. Half-brothers or cousins, Jon and Robb would always be brothers by bond. The dreams did not seem so daunting after that.

* * *

The two boys awoke well past dawn the next morning. 

Lord Stark had left for his trip already. There would be no opportunity for questions.

A white raven arrived to celebrate Jon's seventh name-day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed the first real chapter of the story. I am actively seeking a beta, and could be open to a co-writer if anyone is interested in either. Even if it's just to chat about the direction the story is going and untangling plot-lines.
> 
> I wonder where those dreams are coming from...
> 
> Robb and Jon are closer in this fic than in canon, in part because of the dreams and in part because of story necessity. Between the brotherly affection and the learning about new and different things spurned on by the dreams, the boys have grown up closer than they even were in canon. As a result, Robb sticks up for Jon and they and Theon are not friends. I think Robb's an excellent brother in canon, don't get me wrong. 
> 
> The lessons from the maester may be foreshadowing, who is to say?
> 
> We don't know that Brandon Snow was Torrhen's hand, but I totally have that as head canon. It probably also wasn't also called hand, but I love the idea that the North would have had a bastard Hand like the South did at the time. It would also explain why he self-exiled-as the Hand, he would feel ever more betrayed by the dismissal of his calls to fight instead of kneel. I included it for a purpose beyond my head canon though.


	3. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime deals with new members of the court of King's Landing. Finding himself with more time than ever before, he stumbles upon a mystery that he hesitantly involves himself in.

**290**

"Kingslayer! Get that useless squire of mine in here!"

Ser Jaime Lannister, the beloved son of Tywin Lannister and preeminent sword of the realm, had been reduced to the errand-boy's errand-boy in the last three moons since they had returned from the Greyjoy Rebellion. He was only useful to stand outside the door of the King while he dishonored his sister, or was stuck running off to find King Robert Baratheon's squire Balon Swann when the oaf inevitably ran out of wine. 

It was undignified and a dishonor to knighthood. When he had accompanied Summer Crakehall as a squire to the Kingswood alongside the legendary Barristan the Bold and Arthur Dayne, he had thought being a knight was the most honorable calling in the realm. Seeing those men in action was breath-taking. The demise of Simon Toyne and crossing blades with the Smiling Knight was the third best memory of Jaime Lannister's life to this day.

It was certainly better the prospect of Lordship. Much better than listening to his father sternly lecture facts about new ore veins and rotational training for the centuries made up of common-born pikes in the Lannister army. It was infinitely better than reading reports on the proposed sewage system of Casterly Rock, failing to stop the letters from jumping off the page and re-arranging themselves. 

It was that feeling of jubilation following the Battle of the Kingswood that made Jaime declared his heart to knighthood and the Kingsguard. Cersei had been predictable; his other half had manipulated his feelings on the matter and spun it as her own plans. He followed along like he always had.

It was also beginning to prove to be the biggest mistake of his life. 

Somehow these last three moons had proved as bad as, if not worse than, the time after Rhaegar's death on the Trident. Mayhaps it was the fact that he could retreat from his worry, over fulfilling his promise to the late Prince and the the feeling he may be attached to a spike and burned with green wildfire, to thoughts of the days spent between Cersei's thighs.

She was now close enough that those images tattooed on his heart could be re-lived. However, he had been denied at every turn lately. He had even been removed from rotation to guard the Queen's chambers and instead forced to spend additional time outside the King's. She was insistent that their coupling must be stopped. Not over a sudden display of remorse, of course not.

The truth was Cersei denied his seductions, secret smiles, and sweet words over a _Witch_. An honest-to-the-Seven bloody Witch.

Sighing to himself, he shook his mane of golden hair over his shoulder and continued to strut down the halls of the Red Keep. It was useless worrying about Cersei. He had an errant Marcher boy to find.

* * *

Jaime Lannister mostly tolerated Thoros of Myr. That was truly high praise on Jaime's account. There were not many people whose company he would deign to be pleased by.

Thoros of Myr, a drunkard Red Priest, had spent the years of King Robert's reign drinking piss-quality wine in the gutters of Flea Bottom instead of proselytizing. He had been of some minor fame for his burning sword in tourney melees, but it was rare he had enough coin to enter with enough low-quality swords to burn through.

He had caught Robert's attention as the first over the walls of Pyke. Jaime had learned that the man could even out-drink the King. He was humorous, albeit crude and droll. It reminded Jaime enough of Tyrion in a fashion. It also distracted Robert from seeking Cersei's chambers when they would drink well into the night.

His ability to drink the oaf under the table and into a drunken slumber was his most useful quality to Jaime.

What Jaime had not foreseen was that Robert's easy acceptance of Thoros of Myr into his circle would open the gates for another member of his faith to also seek the favor of the court. 

Melisandre, an admittedly beautiful woman with an ageless quality and unnatural true red hair, had somehow learned that Thoros was accepted in court and sought the audience of the Royal Family as a result. 

Cersei hated beautiful women, as a general rule. Jaime had known that his whole life. She was endlessly jealous of Ashara Dayne in their youth-even when Rhaegar died and he was stuck in King's Landing alone, the letters he would get from her detailed how much Cersei hated the 'whorish bitch' instead of questions on Jaime's well-being.

There was an even more special place of hate in her heart for Lyanna Stark. She hated the Stark girl as much as she loved Jaime.

Almost as much as she loved _herself_.

He had truly expected that Cersei would throw the woman out by the hair when she sought a private audience one afternoon. He was guarding her chambers that day, aimlessly bouncing on his heels. He was counting down the minutes until the coast was clear enough that his presence inside the door would not be questioned and they could have their tryst.

The woman had somehow managed to glide her way into the Royal Suite, all but commanding him to allow her an audience with Cersei. He had to raise his voice at the witch would impassively insisted that the fate of the Lannister family, and less importantly the world, was at stake based on information she had to provide the Queen.

She was not welcome and would not be tolerated. He had thought he was doing the right thing in separating her from his twin. 

It turned out that was true: he should have tried even harder.

The commotion had drawn Cersei's attention and ire. She barreled towards the door and demanded that the woman leave at once. The contemptuous sneer, either from the woman's appearance or lack of status, had morphed into a wide-eyed look of horror when the woman had whispered the words: "gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds". 

Jaime had never seen Cersei's face adopt that look of abject terror. Even when they were caught by a maid kissing in a shadowy corridor of Casterly Rock as children, Cersei always chose rage over fear.

The worst part of it was that he did not understand what had elicited the reaction. Cersei had never shared that with him, and they shared everything.

With those words, Melisandre was given private access to the Queen's chambers. His close proximity to the door allowed him to hear snippets of the conversation: "R'Hllor has shown me a _lion, alone at the end of the world. Present for the battle with the Great Enemy, an army at his back, none by his side..._ I know the witch's words scare you, my Queen. Only the Lord of Light can break the curse on you...The night is dark and full of terrors...There is no _royal_ blood. Forgive me, Your Grace. I seek not to offend...The Lord's Will needs King's Blood. Only the Blood of a King will bring our fabled hero through your womb...Winter is coming, one in three moons, then another...No, nothing to do with House Stark, Your Grace, merely the winter that accompanies the Great Other..."

Jaime had never claimed to be the slightest iota philosophical. Books in general were not to his taste-books on magic and religion even less so. That was Tyrion's domain.

Even with his lack of an education on the subject, Jaime could figure out that the woman knew Joffrey was not of Robert Baratheon's seed. 'No royal blood' indeed. 

He had thought that the witch's knowledge of their liaisons would drive Cersei nearly purple with rage, and had begun to plan for a place to hide a body slain by his sword. Instead, it had proved to Cersei that the woman's words were genuine. She had found an ardent believer in his sister.

The Queen had made clear immediately after that first meeting that she and Jaime were not to couple any longer. That her womb must be ready and willing to 'accept the oaf's seed. One night of agony of him between my thighs will be worth launching a Lannister dynasty to last a thousand years.'

The witch continued to meet with his sister every other day, despite protests from himself, Jon Arryn and later the High Septon. Cersei had only dug her heels in and insisted that her business was her own. If Robert could have a whore every night, what was the harm in one Red Priestess?

For Jaime, the harm was losing the one safe harbor in the swirling whirlpool that was Westeros' capital.

* * *

Jaime liked to believe that he understood the actions of his Father and could predict them easily enough. They were always rooted in the same desire to further the Lannister name. Vengeance for the Family, perseverance of the Family, accumulating power for the Family-it mattered not, all was done to keep the Lannisters at the height of power.

Tywin Lannister only acted irrationally in regards about one particular 'issue' of his. 

It explained why he was standing alone in the harbor at too-early of an hour, with one hand covering his eyes from the beginnings of sunrise reflecting off of the Blackwater. He had received marching orders, passed on by Pyrcelle, to meet the single re-built ship of the Lannister fleet, the _Lady Joanna,_ during the hour of the songbird. 

He should have known the only visitor to arrive at the crack of dawn would be the third of Tywin Lannister's children. Inevitably to hide the 'disgraced monkey-demon' from the court's eyes.

Jaime finally saw his baby brother come down the gangplank of the ship, book-ended by two crimson-cloaked guards. His brother's eyes, one emerald and one onyx, lit with joy at seeing him.

"Ah, a royal welcome! Where are my adoring fans?" His brother called out to him as he rushed his stubby legs over to Jaime.

"One Lannister is worth a hundred sniveling courtiers, baby brother, surely even you know that," Jaime said genially, drawing the dwarf up into a hug that lifted his feet off the ground.

Jaime spun his brother around in his arms. They had seen each other in Lannisport at the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion, but it was only the second time in King Robert's reign that Tyrion was allowed to make the journey into the capital.

"True, brother mine. One golden dragon is better than a handful of copper stars," Tyrion bemusedly agreed as Jaime returned him to the ground. 

Jaime feigned a huge pout on his face and ran a hand through his long locks, "I would think I'm surely worth more than a golden dragon."

"All the gold in Casterly Rock, at least according to Father. Regardless of your vows. Speaking of, how _are_ Westeros' two beloved royals? Still the image of Florian the Fool and Jonquil returned to life from song?" Tyrion japed.

Jaime took a moment to turn and begin walking back to the Red Keep to avoid Tyrion seeing the frown marring his features. Tyrion followed quickly after him, with the guards allowing some privacy and trailing steps behind.

"You've always known that our sister can play the mummer when the situation demands," was all that Jaime said finally.

"Never enough to pretend to love me," Tyrion grumbled, the words barely reaching Jaime. The two walked in silence, allowing the sounds of early-morning workers and the general bustle of the city that existed at all times of the day to surround the pair.

The two continued towards the Red Keep on the Hook by foot. The bustling of the city slowed down the closer they got to the residence, leaving only guardsmen patrolling in Lannister crimson, on the streets around the pair.

Jaime had enough of guesswork and finally baldly asked the obvious question. "What brings you to the city, Tyrion?"

"Father has deigned to allow me to act his his envoy. A honor, truly. My payment for the completion of the role of the most-highborn of all Sanitation Savants. The drains and sewers of the Rock have been rebuilt and cleaned out, so he decides to send me to the true cesspit of the Seven Kingdoms. A whore-house of mine own would have been more pleasant of a reward," his brother chuckled at his own joke, before wincing.

Jaime stopped their trek and turned to face his brother, watching as his brother rubbed a knot out of one of his thighs. If he had known it was Tyrion coming, he would have gotten a carriage.

"An envoy? And what goal does Father have you seeking?" Jaime questioned, preferring to be direct. He truly loved his brother, but his love of words and hearing himself speak without divulging the meaning in his words had always irked Jaime. He certainly heard it enough during his time in the capital.

"Oddly enough, I was sent to both interrogate and congratulate our charming Queen. Father received a raven about an approaching winter from her that was unknown to him thus far. He evidently twisted enough arms, or mayhaps threw enough gold around, to have the Citadel investigate. It turns out our sister has a finer nose for a coming winter than even the Starks. The Citadel was caught with their pants down over the situation, a truly rare moment," Tyrion explained genially.

The explanation only soured Jaime's mood and he turned mulishly silent. Damn the witch for being right.

The two brothers had just about finished their walk to the Red Keep and Jaime received nods from the guardsman at the gates of the Red Keep, allowing entry into the heart of the city.

As they slowly jaunted through, Jaime eventually caught a little serving urchin by the scruff of the neck and stopped the lad in his tracks. With a charming smile and two silver stags, Jaime instructed the boy to see to preparations for a room in Maegor's Holdfast's ground-floor to be set up for his younger brother. A small 'yes m'lord' was the only answer he received in return.

"Well, baby brother, I'm glad you're in our little corner of the Seven Hells, truly," Jaime said. "I am to guard the King for the next few hours. I'll see to it that the Queen and I meet you to share an afternoon meal, if it pleases you?"

His brother quickly agreed, relief shining on his face. It was better that Jaime served as a mediator between the two. Sparks would fly higher and hotter than from a blacksmith's forge if Tyrion were to approach their sister alone.

A quick hug, given on one knee, later, Jaime sent his brother off to bathe and rest after his journey. He had just a few hours of trailing after the oaf before he was free to partake in Lannister family excitement.

* * *

As it turned out, Queen Cersei had changed her daily schedule in the time that Jaime had stopped guarding her. It was further proof that the life he had grown accustomed to was all but over in King's Landing.

Intead, after a mind-numbing session of listening to Robert wax poetically about his slaying of Rhaegar 'the dragon thief' Targaryen, Jaime returned to the White Sword Tower to change out of his Kingsguard armor before meeting his younger brother in his chambers. If his favored sibling was unavailable, at least he finally had another to spend time with.

Tyrion was lounging on his bed when Jaime entered the chamber without knocking. Although the bed was decadently decorated and large enough to fit King Robert and several whores, Tyrion had his little feet dangling off the edge of the bed and a pillow propping up his arms, holding his head in his hands, in order to read a book. Jaime watched his little brother tap his feet against the frame of the bed each time he turned the page and waited to see when his brother would acknowledge his presence.

It was futile; Jaime should have expected it. Finally, at his wit's end, Jaime exaggeratedly sighed and gave a blatant cough to let his brother know that he had a visitor. Tyrion shifted on the pillow to lay his head in one hand and held up a single finger. He waited impatiently for Tyrion to finish the page he was reading, before his brother finally deigned to give Jaime his attention by facing him.

"Wonderful sonnets, written by the Rhoynish and translated by some Maester or another," was Tyrion's only explanation. "Quite risque as well. Merely fortifying myself before we meet with our beautiful Queen. Is she ready to be imposed upon?"

Jaime could only shake his head, annoyed at the situation, his younger brother, and his other half. "Afraid not, Tyrion," he said. "Seems that our Queen has taken up worship of the Lord of Light or some sort of nonsense in the afternoons. She agreed to supper, however. Robert would use your arrival as an excuse to throw a feast, but it appears he's preparing to wallow in the bosom of some wench later tonight."

Tyrion smiled widely. "Lovely!" he cried as he clapped his hands together enthusiastically. "I took in the delights of the city earlier. A spectacular variety. Truly, flavor from every corner of Planetos. One of my companions told me about a new establishment on the Street of Sisters. We'll make a day of it, what say you brother?"

Jaime frowned, a rare serious expression crossing his features. A trip to the brothel with Tyrion? This was a new low for humor. "Somehow, I don't find a trip to another whorehouse with you a pleasing trip to make. Go on, continue reading your diddies and I'll head to the training yard."

To his immense consternation, Tyrion only giggled into the back of his hand. "Ha! If only I could drag you to a brothel, the city and your attitude would be better for it...no, dear brother. One of my companions told me of a new place to drink wine, read poetry, but best of all, to discuss it with the upper-echelons of King's Landing. Mayhaps we'll even see dullards who bathe there!"

Jaime shook his head at his brother's antics but got to his feet and beckoned Tyrion to follow him into the city. It truly sounded like one of the Seven Hells their childhood Septa had lectured them about, but he would go for his baby brother. 

He was too isolated in King's Landing now not to grab an opportunity for company with both hands.

As the two made a carriage ride down to the Street of Sisters, Jaime let Tyrion's voice wash over him, lounging languidly over the crimson-and-gold cushions. His brother was prattling on about Uncle Gerion. The only tolerable uncle the two had, always with a quick smile and an even quicker jape.

From what he was able to gather, Uncle Gerion was meticulously planning a trip to Valyria in order to recover Brightroar for his intimidating and cold brother. Tyrion was doing research and helping in every process of the voyage. Uncle Gerion was always the only one to give Tyrion's mind the attention it deserved.

The presence of his time tumbling in the hay with a peasant wench was the primary delay in Gerion not taking the first ship headed to Essos out of Lannisport. Jaime did not vocalize it, but he was impressed with his Uncle. He was usually head-strong and ran off without consideration of much else.

Tyrion was undaunted in the face of Jaime's silence and by the time they reached their intended location, he was still in the midst of talking all about his desires to see the sights of the isle of Lys, the Black Walls of Volantis, and even the funny-colored hair of the Tyroshi before returning to 'his prison of Casterly Rock.' He stopped mid-sentence when the carriage lurched to a halt, before jumping out of the door that was opened by three Lannister men. 

"Behold, brother mine! Have you ever seen such a sight?" Tyrion beckoned at the tavern. That was true, Jaime had never seen such a queer-looking building. "The roof! I've only ever read of the sort. Low building with a dwarfing pyramid as a roof! I will have to return and pay my companion double. Only in Yi-Ti do they have buildings like this."

"I did not know you had such an interest in architecture, Tyrion," Jaime said. "Would you like me to send a raven to Father about it? It could be your next venture in proving your utility to the Lannister name. Certainly more use than a white-cloaked knight," he finished bitterly.

Tyrion patted his arm with some level of sympathy. The brothers were alike in that, disappointing their father. Albeit for different reasons, there was no true claimant for the heir of Casterly Rock. 

After the moment of support had passed, Tyrion walked towards the building. "Come, come, let us drown our wallowing ways in wine and verse! Not quite the same as wine and tits, but it at least allows you to participate!" Tyrion jovially called out over his shoulder.

As it were, a knight and a dwarf entered the business. Jaime instinctively surveyed the room, looking for shadows of enemies that surely did not exist. The paranoia of a Kingsguard knight was ever-present. 

It was beautiful inside. At the entrance of the building, there was an indoor garden, filled with all sorts of untamed flowers, bursting with vibrant hues of greens, lavender, and even the rare blood-red. He would have thought it decorative alone, but a younger woman in some sort of outfit crouched down into the soil before plucking out a plant before shuffling into the backroom. 

On each side of the garden, there were small wooden tables spread out, each only adorned with two or four seats that matched the table's decors. Jaime did not know what to call the sides of the rooms that were half-filled with people. Dining rooms? Tavern halls? None of the descriptors seemed particularly appropriate.

Tyrion's two-colored eyes wandered the sight greedily. A small smile reached his face as Jaime looked down on him. That rare smile of pure and unadulterated joy was well worth the sojourn into an unknown and frankly unappealing drinking hall. A similar smile flashed, unbidden, over his features before he schooled the mask of his normally uncaring face. It would not do to be demonstrative of his happiness. It was unbecoming of a Lannister and Kingsguard both.

Tyrion scampered up to a table with only two chairs, as the guards that followed leaned against the wall behind the two brothers. Even in times of peace, the Lannister name must be protected and ensured. 

He was uncomfortable sitting in the rickety chairs at their table. These were simple, folding chairs and not the throne-like luxuries that he was used to. Only the Iron Throne had been more uncomfortable to sit in.

A mousy girl approached the table and all but begged for their order, eyes downcast as not to meet theirs. She ran through their options in ordering. They truly had a variety of wine, and even had other beverages.

Tyrion ordered for them, "a pitcher of red from the Godsgrace for two. Oh, and a mint tea," he said simply, nodding in Jaime's direction.

After ordering a drink, Tyrion stood and made his way to the shelves of slim books on the far-side of the establishment. The place was truly a place of luxury; a collection of books that large would have costed a smallfolk man a decade of work. Tyrion returned with a book bound in black, tough leather. 

"Love poetry of Lys," Tyrion gushed as he opened the book, "written in High Valyrian. Most I have read have been butchered by maesters and translators alike. I am eager to see if it improves the quality."

Jaime huffed and leaned back in his chair, letting Tyrion read unimpeded. He tapped his foot against the floor impatiently, willing the time spent here to be finished quickly. 

The serving girl finally returned with their beverages, pouring the first chalice of red wine into Tyrion's cup. He barely looked up from his book when the drink arrived, only paying enough attention to down the contents of the goblet. Little drops of wine trickled down his cheek as he continued to plow through his book.

Jaime reached for the tea that Tyrion ordered for him. Hissing, he took his hand away from the too-hot mug before it burned him. He frowned and began to wonder if an early exit was possible.

Tyrion looked up and met his gaze. "Listen, brother!" He exclaimed. " _Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along._ Have you heard something so sweet?"

Jaime could not help but to wince. That sounded awfully close to words Cersei seductively whispered into his ear, purring as he filled her. She loved to moan about their closeness and how they had each other from the start. "I can't say I have, Tyrion. This is what amuses you?" He questioned harshly.

A frown was Tyrion's only answer. Before he could vocalize a response, their attention had been diverted to another table. Two men, one in silk and the other in rough-spun wool, began shouting at each other.

"I tell you! That fat, useless High Septon of yours is as useless as the King. R'Hllor has gifted his disciples with warnings of winter, while the two stuff their faces with boar and wine. My sister's family down in Flea Bottom does not feel the presence of the Seven in their starving bellies. At least the Lord of Light warms their toes in the night!" One man shouted, beads of sweat dripping down his long face.

"Don't go talkin' about the Seven like ya know anything about it. If ya did, you'd know what ya speak of is blasphemy to the gods and the King alike. The Father and The Smith above gave me my forge, they did! And Lord Arryn graced me shop. Our good King's coin kept me an' mine fed for moon turns on that order alone. Mind yur place, Rod," the other man harshly retorted in a lower voice. 

Jaime decided that he had heard too much. He could not be bothered to address condemning words against the King, as he privately agreed, but he could also not allow the words to pass over him unaffected. He was a Kingsguard after all. He quickly thought to himself that retreating from the shop would be better part of valor.

He quickly got to his feet and strode out of the hall without a word to Tyrion. Let him sit and listen to baseborn traitors talk about the failures of the realm and the bloody Lord of Light while trying to read.

He paced the length of the Street of Sisters, hoping to find some semblance of calm to wash over him. He was adrift, he knew. He had too little interaction with his sister and too much resentment for Robert and the situation he was in. It was beginning to look like taking the Black would have been the more appealing option at the end of the Rebellion.

Silence overcame Jaime. Despite the bustling work on the Street and the plodding of horses on the walkway, Jaime began to settle into a contented peace. Here, he was anonymous. Not the son of Tywin, the Kingslayer or a knight; he was simply Jaime for a moment.

The sense of tranquility was too short, and he should have known it was destined to break. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a younger women being dragged out of a tavern by two men. They were distinct, that was for certain, even though he could only see their backs. One had blue hair braided to his waist, while the other had a shocking and clearly dyed mop of red hair. 

The woman was kicking out at the ankles of her captors but was oddly silent in dealing with the situation. Jaime decided to follow the commotion. It would not do to get involved if the woman was a runaway or a thief, but he could keep an eye out on it if there was something more sinister afoot. It was the least his knightly vows could demand.

Jaime followed at a distance, watching as the woman continued to struggle without a single noise. The girl's poor arms were probably black and blue at this rate, with how hard their hands seemed to clutch the girl's arms.

The Street of the Sisters was fairly busy at this time after the noon meal, with travelers on foot and by wagon ambling up one of the main roads of the capitol. He could see paired Gold Cloaks marching the street periodically, though none stopped to investigate the girl and her two vibrantly haired captors. He should not have been surprised really; the Gold Cloaks were poor lads that were desperate for the silver and gold of service. They were not knights, or even true warriors.

The pair of men and their abducted continued their journey as Jaime passed the rowdy crowd at the Great Sept of Baelor and onto the Street of Steel. Groups of begging brothers were outside the seat of the Faith, with a poor Septon overwhelmed by the crowd gathered. Distracted by the sight of urchins begging, he almost missed the girl's futile flails finally prove successful.

The girl hit the back of the blue-haired man's legs and caused the man to stumble just enough to let go of the vice grip he had on her arms. That was all she needed; another quick slap to the face of the other man wedged herself free from captivity. If she was more than a street urchin who might have stolen something, Jaime would have been impressed.

Still, the girl had some sort of gumption. It was enough for Jaime to intervene. As the girl began to sprint away from her captors, Jaime caught her arm in a vice grip of his own. She would not be going anywhere without some sort of elaboration on the events.

The two men were in some pain, but it was not enough to deter them from their quest of seizing the girl. As the two approached Jaime, he had to put a hand on the hilt of his sword in order to warn them of the consequences.

"Hail friends," Jaime said with a smarmy grin, "what seems to be the issue here? The lass take your coin and not give you the minge?" 

The man with vibrant red hair spoke up in a thick accent, "this no concern you, man. We take girl and leave to ship."

Jaime scoffed at the words. It would take a lot more than two Essoi to duel him and recover their prizes. "It seems I have you at a disadvantage. Ser Jaime Lannister, at your service. Mayhaps you know me as _the Kingslayer,"_ he emphasized, "now if it pleases you, I'll take the fair maiden to her home and we'll all part amicably, hmm?" 

The two men took a long and hard look at one another, before staring at Jaime himself. The grip on the hilt of his sword tightened as the two considered the possibility of using violence in order to take their loot. 

Finally, the two decided that the infamy of his moniker of Kingslayer was enough to dissuade them from attempting to attack. At least a name could be useful once and a while. 

The two men grumbled and cursed under their breaths in a language that Jaime did not understand, but nevertheless slinked off in the direction of the Street of Steel, leaving behind Jaime and the poor girl.

Satisfied that the two men would not be giving either of them a hard time, Jaime turned to the girl whose arms were already chafing under his hold.

"Well, wench, what seemed to be the issue with those two?" Jaime questioned.

He expected some sort of sob story, filled with tales of abuse, misunderstandings and woe. Unfortunately, that was not to be.

Instead, the girl opened her mouth widely to reveal that she was without a tongue. As he dropped his jaw in incredulity, she shook against his loosened grip enough to free herself. He did not have a single moment to formulate a response before the girl bolted out of his presence, as if he were infected with greyscale. No matter. He was a _knight,_ he did not need a thank you.

That thought ribbed him to anger as he began his walk back to Tyrion. He had saved that little wench, and still could not get a thank you. All of his deeds of valor were thankless and without recognition. (Was it worth it? Wouldn't Cersei's love be sweeter than no appreciation and the scorn of his title?)

As he approached the door of the tavern, he had finally cooled his temper enough not to flip the first table that he encountered. It was a close call, but Tyrion would need his unaffected and cool brother. That was his role when the two of them spent any time together. Tyrion could be as caustic and bitter as he needed to be; Jaime was responsible for the levity in their relationship.

He spotted Tyrion still immersed in a slim book, inevitably the work of some ill-reputed poet, if his luck was anything to go by. Instead of hailing his brother, he instead approached one of Tyrion's guards and grabbed him by the front of his tunic.

"Listen, there are two men I want you to trail. Blue and dyed red hair. On their way to Fishmonger's Square. Can you manage that, boy? A gold dragon's in it for you if you tell me where they end up for the night," Jaime breathed into the man's close face. 

The guard was visibly shook and could only nod at the instructions. 

Jaime had no idea what he had stumbled into, but something felt important about the encounter between two Essoi men and a mute girl. He would have to see. It was his duty after all. 

* * *

Later that night, Jaime and Tyrion, having washed up from their sojourn into the city, entered the private solar of their sister in order to have supper with the Queen. It was not a feast; Robert was still deep in his cups and his whores. A dinner commemorating Tyrion would have to wait, if Cersei would ever deign to approve such a lavish spread for her demon of a brother.

The three sat awkwardly as they shared their meal. It was the first time, ever, that the three had been alone and eating a meal. The ghost of their father would inevitably rear its head when the silence finally broke.

As they enjoyed roasted boar with some sort of sauce heavily seasoned with lemongrass, Tyrion finally proved to be the boldest of the three siblings and began to speak.

"My dearest sister, how wonderful of you to host us. I'm aware of your disdain of my presence, never you fret. I come on behalf of our Lord Father. Truly, I'd rather be anywhere else," Tyrion began sardonically. Jaime could only snort. His brother was forever lacking any tact at all when he dealt with Cersei. 

Cersei flushed a deep hue of red and gritted her teeth. "What does father want, you little monster. Save the dramatics and get my torture over," she replied.

"Father received your raven about the approaching winter and was thoroughly impressed, Your Grace," Tyrion said, "in fact, he managed to corner much of the market on the Reach's harvest for the year while the rest of Westeros had its pants down by their ankles. Would you like to explain to me, and by extension Father of course, how that is possible? You have made him a venerable fortune; perhaps another crown is in order to celebrate the new riches of House Lannister?"

Jaime saw that Cersei looked torn between being pleased and irritated with their brother's questioning. "Tell our Father that I am the only one of our siblings that is worth the Lannister name, imp. A priestess told me of the coming winter; I have kept her at arm's length of course, but she has proven to be true to her word. A white raven appeared from the Citadel today, after all." 

He snorted in disdain about the witch, before both of his siblings shot him an unamused look. He shrugged in response to their censorship, caught in the middle of them as always.

"Now tell Lord Lannister that I will endeavor to fulfill his latest raven, declaring that I must have a spare to the Throne. The oaf has eaten enough fermented crab to fuck half of King's Landing's whores in an evening. He'll fill my womb on this day enough to breed me another son," Cersei said as she stood up.

Without looking back at her two brothers, she left her plate half-empty with boar and strode out the room, head held high and sashaying her hips. Jaime could only hang his head in shame that his love was being fucked by another. The two brothers left the rest of their meals unfinished as her last words lingered in the room like smoke.

"Charming as ever, Jaime," Tyrion finally let out, "no wonder you're so eager to remain in King's Landing. How would you live your life without the charms of our lovely Queen?" 

Jaime only gritted his teeth again, uneager to hear the ribbing that Tyrion always gave him about the relationship of the two twins (even if he did not know the truth. He _could never_ know the truth: of two halves entwined in all ways possible as one more-than-complete whole). 

The two sat in silence as they finished the rest of their supper. The only sounds in the room were Tyrion slurping his fourth goblet of wine. Finally, their plates emptied and Jaime had no diversion to rely on.

"Say, Tyrion," he began. "When you were in that gods-forsaken wine-sink, I saw an interesting sight. Would you mind coordinating with that shadow of yours and seeing what the two men he was trailing were up to? I believe two Essoi men were attempting to run off with a mute. It sounds like the beginning of one of your famous japes..."

A nod was the only answer Tyrion provided. It would have to be enough.

For family, duty and honor, Jaime was beholden. If only he was a Tully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is the primary POV of King's Landing for the moment! I hope you liked the Tyrion/Jaime interaction; their relationship is one of my favorites from canon and hopefully can be even better here.
> 
> The poetry line is Rumi, by the way.


End file.
